Page 8 of The Wulver's Bond
He grabbed his basket of medical supplies and rummaged for bandages and antiseptic. Weed watched him closely—and curiously. Arran had noticed how carefully Weed paid attention. Assessing him. For all his cavalier frivolity, Weed had a watchfulness that Arran identified with.
But now that Arran was about to take his hoodie off, this quality bothered him immensely.
He kept his back to Weed as he pulled the hoodie over his head. This turned out to be in vain, as Weed simply sidled around to get a better look.
Weed gave a low wolf whistle, appraising Arran from his waistband to his collarbone. ‘You got some muscles there, wolfie.’
Arran’s ears twitched, a behavioural tell of his self-consciousness that he hoped Weed couldn’t read. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. All you can see is fur.’
Weed’s grin was mischievous as he sauntered closer. ‘Sure. But the light in here throws some enticing shadows…’ He reached up and swiped a finger under the line of Arran’s left pectoral muscle.
Arran jerked back against the workbench. Wooden bowls clattered to the floor as he sought to grip on to something solid instead of lashing out at Weed.
Weed raised an eyebrow. ‘Personal space issues?’
‘I was not ready for that,’ Arran rasped, breathing heavily, baring teeth. ‘I would appreciate a warning before the next time you touch me.’
Weed sucked in his lower lip, eyes darkening as they roved over Arran’s body again. ‘Next time, eh?’
The insinuation, or perhaps merely the tone of his voice, triggered an alarming reaction in Arran. His instinctive shock at being touched morphed into a flash of arousal, flooding his nervous system with heat.
Arran spun away from Weed, stifling a hungry growl in his throat. He was appalled with himself. Was he really so touch-starved that a single stroke from a stranger excited him to this degree? And from a stranger he had the power to take advantage of, no less. The idea that he might exploit Weed’s curse disgusted him. But, judging by the way his cock was thickening in his jeans, it was clear his body had no quarrel with the situation.
Arran kept himself facing the workbench this time, hiding the shape of his cock against the stone while he cleaned the open cut on his arm. Weed leaned against the counter as he did so, still far too close for comfort. The hairs along Arran’s spine prickled, keeping him on edge.
‘What happened to your other wound?’ Weed asked, watching him wrap a dressing around the cut. ‘Elsie stuck you real good, back there.’ He endeavoured to peer down at Arran’s stomach—Arran pressed firmly against the workbench to deny him the view.
‘The blade was not silver, so it healed quickly. This one shall take longer.’ Arran skilfully ripped the bandage with his teethso as not to waste any material. The excess could be put to use another day. Supplies were always limited.
‘So, Elsie was right about silver being the only way to kill you?’ Weed picked up one of the clay pots from the bench, inspecting it with interest. ‘Sounds like you and I might be together for alongtime then, wolfie.’
Arran stopped and regarded Weed with a frown. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Weed’s attention flitted to a shelf of books. He stretched up on tiptoes to read the titles while replying over his shoulder. ‘I only move on when my master dies, don’t I? And what with you being nearly unkillable and also just as immortal as I am… You are, aren’t you?’ His gaze darted back to Arran, books forgotten. ‘I heard your lot crossed over five thousand odd years ago.’
Your lot,Arran noted. The Wulvers had always suffered a poor reputation, in his previous home as well as this one.
Arran had all but scrubbed his memory of his otherworldly origins. To have it jogged by Weed was an unwelcome distraction, although it did at least take his mind off his cock.
He remembered the fae realm as a harsh and cruel place. When a large tear in the firmament had allowed the first mass exodus of fae beings across to the human realm, Arran had seized the opportunity to escape. A few other Wulvers had made the journey too. They were scattered across the globe now, each leading the particular solitary existence that suited them best. Where they were and what they were doing—if any of them were even still alive, in fact—was no concern of his.
‘I don’t know about unkillable,’ Arran answered, dodging Weed’s question. He wasn’t keen on inviting further probing into his history. ‘I should imagine cutting off my head would do the trick just as well as putting a silver bullet through it. Silver simply prevents my body from healing properly.’
Weed’s mouth twitched. ‘Are you saying that normal bullets would work just as well as silver ones?’
‘Perhaps,’ Arran replied dryly. He held back the truth, aware that just twelve hours ago Weed had been out to kill him. ‘For obvious reasons, I’ve never tested it.’
‘Wow. Elsie would bepissedto hear that.’ The idea seemed to provide a great deal of amusement to Weed. He cackled gleefully to himself while Arran packed the medical supplies away.
Arran then swiftly pulled his hoodie back on, glad to be shielded from Weed’s dangerously prying eyes. He wondered briefly at the garments Weed was wearing: mottled beige and green camo clothes at least two sizes too big that hung off his frame and made him look like a poorly dressed scarecrow. He had a thin gilet over the top, but otherwise appeared to only be wearing one layer, lacking any of the tactical vests and weatherproof coats that Logan and Elsie had sported.
Arran kicked himself then, realising that Weed must have been freezing on the trek across the island. Of course Elsie wouldn’t have wasted decent gear on Weed—if he could survive not being fed then he could probably survive the cold just as well.
It was getting late, and the cave’s temperature was chilly on even the warmest of nights. Arran considered his stash of firewood. He wouldn’t usually dip into it in the middle of summer.
‘I shall light a fire,’ he decided, nevertheless. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Yes,’ Weed replied instantly.
